#ignore the dusty keyboard

[a-planet-around-procyon]

Thank you to the love of my life for this amazing idea.

[triglycercule]

murder time trio come back from killing some guy (me) and dust just pulls out a rainbow cleaning duster and starts dusting himself off. horror questions him. he says it's self care

[gree-gon]

building a deck with my boy

he's giving very important imput

[xraventhegreatx]

Depression comforts 😇🤥🥴🤠 #Blessed

[cute-little-crow]

A seemingly innocent text message leads to a chain of events that turns your entire day upside down… who could have anticipated that?

Hey baby… I’m having the worst day at work. Everyone is really grouchy and I’m struggling to concentrate. Really wish I didn’t have to put up with this today. Sorry for being a downer, I hope your day is going better than mine!! Love you 💞

feat: Rafayel, Sylus, Xavier & Zayne (separately)

tw: female reader, fluff, suggestive, roleplay of kidnap (reader is in no danger), mentions of bomb threats (not genuine and not condoned in the slightest), bratty behaviour (mostly Raf), faked medical emergencies, sorry if I missed anything, Zayne being the most rational of the bunch (obvs)

an: I’d be happy to flesh out and expand any of these if there is interest (especially Xavier’s cause his was real fun 😏) 💖

His phone pinged from across the studio, a sound he could never ignore, especially when it was the tone he used only for you…

With a paintbrush tucked behind his ear, he leapt gracefully from his stool and wiped the dusty remnants of dried paint from his fingers onto his trousers. The white shirt messily—although he might say, artistically—tucked into the waistband was already streaked with the hue of colours making up his latest creation, and a purple smudge darkened the tip of his nose.

Rafayel smiled when your name emblazoned across the screen, but it faltered as he hastily scanned the neat little rows of text. He was full-blown frowning by the time he finished, mood darkened by the idea that there were people in the world that could allow you to feel so badly.

Didn’t they know you were better than they were? That you hung the moon and the stars. Made the tides rise and fall. Without you, their world would be devoid of colour—how mundane.

He wouldn’t stand for it, he couldn’t.

For the next thirty minutes he planned out his strategy. Scribbling ideas down only to angrily score them through when he realised how ridiculous they were. He needed something simple, and most importantly, believable.

A sudden idea popped into his head and he set off before he could change his mind… poor, poor you.

~

You wish you had been exaggerating when you sent off that earlier message, but today truly had been a total clusterfuck. It was barely noon and already you longed for the clutches of sleep that would come when you were tucked up in bed tonight.

The sour mood of your colleagues was rubbing off on you more than you would like, and the dark cloud of negative energy only grew bigger and more dense until it was impossible to see an inch in front of your nose.

Tapping your pen against the edge of your keyboard, you stared where the words should be occupying your screen. A blank document stared back—mocking you. With a frustrated growl, you sank forward with your head on your arms.

“Oh, there you are! Why are you still here?”

The frantic voice of your boss took you by surprise, peering up before jolting upright in your chair.

“Where else would I be?” You asked tentatively, mentally wondering if you had somehow missed a meeting.

“The hospital!! Your boyfriend is in reception bleeding all over the desk! He’s refusing an ambulance and says he’ll only go to the hospital if you take him. Come on, hurry!”

Panic froze your heart. Terror turning your blood to ice in your veins.

Rafayel came into view and immediately, you knew. You were going to kill your dumbass boyfriend for pulling such a ludicrous stunt. What was he thinking and why couldn’t anyone else smell the overwhelming scent of strawberries from the syrup he was claiming was blood?

“My love… at last. I don’t know that I can hold on much longer, please, take my hands,” he enthused, rivalling the most hammiest of actors.

Your lips pursed, and his eyes widened. Despite it all, you played along if only to get the security guard and receptionist to calm down. Taking his sticky strawberry fingers into yours, you cooed in your best impression of genuine concern.

“I can’t believe you didn’t go straight to the hospital, Rafayel. You might have bled out in my office reception, let’s get you out of here. Does it hurt? No, no… I’ll manage,” you reassured the ashen looking security guard whilst squeezing Rafayel’s fingers in a death grip.

He squeaked out a groan of genuine pain, but he deserved it for causing such a scene at your workplace. His bottom lip stuck out in a petulant pout that was only visible to you, corralling him along until you were in the staff car park and able to shove him bodily into the passenger seat.

You kept up the pretence until you were out of sight of the building and any security cameras before pulling over into a side street and cutting the engine without saying a word.

“I was—”

“Trying to get me fired?” you supplied, turning in your seat and pulling wet wipes out of the glovebox by the fistful.

Rafayel continued to look petulant, but the sticky mess smeared on his cheek and neck as well as covering both his hands and the cuffs of his shirt were too ridiculous for you to stay mad.

You giggled, and he side eyed you—cautiously. “You look… good enough to eat, baby. Smell good too.” Leaning close, you licked through the mess of syrup streaked over his hammering pulse point and heard his breathless little hiccup.

“It wasn’t my best plan ever, but it got you out of work, right?”

It was hard to argue with that. You conceded with a nod, starting the engine once more and peeling back into traffic.

“Mhm, true, and you brought me dessert. It’s a good thing that strawberry tarts are my favourite.”

Sylus welcomed the distraction of his phone vibrating from the pocket of his trousers. He had spent the better part of his morning listening to those with more money than sense, bumble through negotiations he had no intention of seeing through to fruition. But even so, he liked to dangle the carrot and see how high he could make them jump. Call it an entertainment of sorts.

“This meeting is over,” he intoned flatly, quickly rereading your message a second time whilst his frustration tried valiantly to leak outward.

The room emptied hastily—much to everyone’s relief—and once alone with his thoughts, Sylus let out a long aggravated sigh. His nostrils flared. His fingers drummed a war song against the enamel of his desk.

He supported your independence with his whole heart but there were times, like these, that he wished you would simply quit and join him in running his growing empire. Whilst he understood your reservations, and he certainly knew that he would be rather indulgent with your time if you worked side by side, he was not purely driven by his dick—only sometimes.

“Luke. Kieran. Get in here,” he called out.

Mere seconds later the brothers appeared, inquisitive though it might be hard for some to tell given the masks. Sylus leant back in his chair, debating his course of action and whether or not you might just explode when he pulled the trigger, metaphorically speaking.

“Yes Boss?” The brothers said in almost perfect unison, mischief evident in their voices.

“I need a favour, and I want you to make it convincing…”

~

This meeting was akin to listening to nails being scoured down a chalkboard, and that was about the most polite way you could put it.

You chewed on the end of your pen, anything to distract from the presentation being blasted at you from the large projector screen on the conference wall. Around you sat your colleagues and superiors, most looking equally bored, although a few opted to sit straight backed and bright eyed—the kiss asses—as you referred to them.

The hands of your watch seemed to move at half speed and you couldn’t believe there was another full hour ahead before you could find some solace during your lunch break.

An alarm pierced through the monotonous voice of the presenter on screen, you and your colleagues glanced around in confusion as it sounded unlike any fire alarm you had been present for. You sat up in your seat, twisting around to see people scurrying past the frosted glass windows until someone crashed into the door as if they had run flat out to get here.

“We’ve received a report that there’s a bomb in the building! Everyone out. Now! Don’t be stupid,” the man who you assumed was a part of security yelled at the nearest girl who had asked to go back to her desk to grab her bag. “Exit quickly and calmly. Don’t go back for anything!”

For someone advocating calmness, he sprinted away looking the absolute contrary to his guidance, but you didn’t have time to muse on it when everyone started to push and shove out of the doorway.

It wasn’t long before the panic and hushed conversations behind hands from the meeting point nearly a block away died down to be replaced by angry tuts and speculation over what might have happened.

There was a growing sense that the call had been a hoax which put nobody in a good mood, and you couldn’t blame them. Your car keys were back at your desk so you didn’t even have the option to leave.

Thankfully, you had your phone and whilst you had been scrolling social media—which was blowing up with the bomb threat news—a message popped up…

Need a ride, kitten?

You glanced around, eyes narrowed for the telltale flash of crimson but found none.

Maybe I do… maybe I don’t. Y’know, I’m surprised you’re not more concerned.

Concerned? Why should I be concerned? There’s no bomb. Keep walking this way, sweetie, you’re getting warmer.

You stopped in your tracks, mind whirring with the implication of his words. He didn’t… he wouldn’t. Fuck, he absolutely would.

Did you call in a fucking bomb threat?! You’re insane!!

Your steps had taken you closer to the mouth of a side street, it was shadowy and you didn’t so much as see Sylus, as you did sense him. The hairs on your neck stood to attention and for all your storming anger, you couldn’t deny the desire and affection curling around you.

“No,” Sylus purred into your ear from behind, looming out whatever blind spot he had stalked you from to rub a hand up your arm. “I didn’t call it in…”

“So it was Luke and Kieran, those two pests probably laughed themselves sick once it was done.”

Sylus tsked gently. He drew you carefully into his chest and kissed the crown of your head, happy to be reunited, even if it was the result of foul play. “Let them have their little fun, kitten. You wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t.”

It was impossible to stay mad, it was really was. Instead, you stood on your tiptoes and cupped his cheek until you could claim his lips, slow and deliberate.

“I hope you won’t pull these kind of stunts when we’re working together…”

His breathing stalled at your quip. Vermillion eyes searching yours for deceit or misplaced humour and finding nothing but truth. Sylus smiled…

“That’s a promise I can’t make, sweetie. But, I can promise you won’t regret your decision for a single second.”

Boredom was not something that Xavier handled well. He needed the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline of the fight or the total blankness of deep, uninterrupted sleep.

So, perhaps it was serendipitous that you should text him at the precise moment he was ready to tug on his hair with the lack of activity. His smile was short-lived as he read the message, wishing he could somehow help.

Is there a way I could help, my starlight?

Xavier stared at his phone for a few seconds, willing the little bubble to appear that signalled your imminent reply, but after a little longer, he tossed it away and closed his eyes.

A ping made one eye crack open.

Not unless you know someone willing to kidnap me from this hellscape. Lol! Don’t worry about me, I’ll survive 💪🫰

He laughed. What a silly notion. Unless… why was the idea growing on him the longer he thought about it?

Did it make him depraved to want to fulfil that role, safe in the knowledge that not a hair on your head would be hurt in the process because he would be the one pulling the strings?

I mean… never mind. Lemme know if you change your mind. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do today. See you soon, pretty…

~

Your fingers flew across your keyboard, and to the casual observer it would seem like you were deeply engrossed in your work. The truth was that you were gossiping with a work friend over the IM chat feature.

Stretching your arms overhead, you tilted your neck from side to side until you heard a satisfying pop. It was going to be a long afternoon of very little to do. Maybe you needed to pace yourself if the workload was going to continue being this light?

You decided that some soda might cheer you up, so you took the short trip to the break room and happily procured the last can of your favourite flavour. It wasn’t until you were resettled at your desk that you notice the pink post it note on your screen.

Come to the supply closet. I have something for you.

The old adage of ‘curiosity killed the cat’ seemed to be lost on you as you trotted the short distance to the store room in question, wondering if maybe your friend wanted to continue your conversation without the fear of it being tracked. It didn’t even raise alarm when you discovered the small room in complete darkness.

“Tara? Are you in here?”

You tiptoed to the shelves in the very back, turning when you heard movement, only for solid lead to plummet into your stomach as a hooded figure dressed from head to toe in black stalked forward.

The lower half of his face was covered by a mask and the hood pulled low enough that you couldn’t see his eyes. You wanted to scream, to run or do something but your fight or flight failed to kick in. Instead, you backstepped right up against the faraway wall, watching as the man cocked his head and tightened his gloved fist.

You were inching around the perimeter of the room, closing in on the door and he was letting you. It was as if he were toying with you, waiting for you to make a move before he reacted. There was something unsettlingly familiar about his stature and the way he moved… but you didn’t have time to question it, it was now or never.

Lunging for the door, you made your move but he was faster and stronger. One arm wound around your middle whilst the other hand came up to cover your mouth, the scream in your throat trapped. His body was radiating pure heat whilst you thrashed to escape.

“Calm yourself…”

Only half aware of the words, you more heard the voice and confusion blanketed your thoughts. Your struggling lessened and you thought you heard him chuckle in response.

“You wanted to be kidnapped… right?” Xavier teased, carefully removing his palm to listen to your panting breaths.

“Xav—”

“Ah ah. Hush now. You’re not going to struggle. You’re going to walk with me to your desk, grab up your things and come with me without making a scene.”

Why were you so flushed? Why were your legs trembling from something other than fear? Did your heart have to pound quite so loudly? It might have been a joke earlier but somehow being kidnapped by Xavier had become one of the hottest things to ever happen in your life.

You nodded your agreement, accompanied by a soft whimper and he pulled you back against his body for a moment before releasing you. It was long enough that you could feel the growing bulge in his black sweats. The thought of keeping him in here flitted through your mind, but he was nudging you forward before you could let the lewd thoughts slip past your lips.

“Once we’re out of here and no one is watching…” you purred, letting your hand graze down the length of his stomach and stopping deliberately at the waistband of his trousers. “I’m going to make a break for it, I hope you’re ready to chase me.”

Xavier chuckled, dark and predatory.

“I won’t stop until you’re struggling beneath me, my starlight.”

For the first time in what felt like years, Zayne had a scheduled day off on a day you were due to work. You assured him that it would fly in if he simply allowed himself to relax, but here he was… staring at the wall.

It was barely 10am and every chore Zayne could think of had been taken care of. He even had time to start some dough for a fresh loaf of bread, the batch slowly proofing beneath a dish towel in the kitchen.

He had half a mind to go into the hospital and put his time to better use. At least he would be able to achieve something instead of sitting here, wishing you were beside him. Empty hours wouldn’t feel so bad if you shared them. He never felt bored when you were here.

Zayne’s phone thrilled from the coffee table and one glance told him the message was from you. Expecting a cute little reminder message that he was to rest and relax, he was not anticipating what he read.

It wasn’t like you to complain unnecessarily, especially because you genuinely enjoyed your job, so he knew that it had to be rough for you to send that message.

Can I help?

When you didn’t reply, he went to check on his dough to distract himself from thoughts of you, miserable and feeling demotivated.

I don’t think so, but thanks for the offer. Might skip movie night if you don’t mind… think I’ll go to bed when I get home.

Well now, that was simply unacceptable. Zayne knew from experience that denying your emotions never solved the issue, and clearly he needed to remind you of that.

~

There was a knock on your office door. It jolted you upright from where you were slumped over your desk feeling defeated. A courier peeked inside with a sheepish smile and confirmed your name. Once he was satisfied, he produced a beautiful bouquet of flowers in a frosted glass vase.

“These are for me? Are you sure?”

“It’s your name on the card and on the order slip… so yep! Enjoy your flowers, miss.” The man gave a short salute and left you to admire the beautiful blooms.

Your fingers stroked the velvet petals of midnight pansies and silvery lilies. The smell was gentle and sweet, much like the smile adorning your face for the first time today.

You didn’t need the little card tucked into the display to know who they were from and immediately you pulled out your phone and pressed the call button.

“Do you send flowers to all your patients, Dr Zayne?”

Zayne hummed, thoughtful for a second. “Only the ones that have captured my heart.”

Your grin only widened, he was so sweet.

“I don’t know if you realise how much this has brightened my day, you darling man,” you admitted with a soft sob.

The sound of traffic on the other end of the line caught your attention, and you wondered where he might be if not at home. As if sensing your question, Zayne provided the answer unprompted.

“Then I guess taking you out to lunch might be considered overkill?”

“Wait, what?”

“Look outside,” he cooed.

You nearly stumbled out of your chair in your rush to approach the window that looked down on the busy streets below. From your vantage point you could make out a man with a head of midnight hair leaning casually against the trees in the courtyard. Your breath hitched when Zayne glanced up to where he knew your office was located and tipped his coffee cup in your direction.

“Oh, Zayne…”

“Yes?”

“I’m not going to want to come back after we eat,” you grumbled honestly.

“That’s fine. I planned on you having a minor allergic reaction that will require personal treatment. I already have the story planned out when I call your boss in an hour.”

This man thought of everything and right now, you were eternally grateful of that. Smothering your laughter behind your palm, you started to stuff your belongings haphazardly into your bag.

“Y’know what? I love you and every immaculately planned out thought inside that big wrinkly brain of yours.”

“… I love you too?”

“That was a compliment,” you assured him hastily, practically running for the lift.

“Oh. Well, thank you, darling. I’ll see you in a minute so I can return the sentiment correctly.”

[theliterarymess]

But at least it’s not cocaine

[fleshengine]

Tip: If Your Girl is having a craving for The Food, you should get The Food and put The Food in her.

Note: You can be Your Girl.

Craving chicken

[ihatebrainstorm]

Geheheheh having too much fun with them :D

(Ignore my dusty ass laptop keyboard 💀💀)

[igglemouse]

authors note: ignore the day, it's wednesday!

It's me again! Yep, still very pregnant and like usual craving pancakes as if my life depends on the. They are a good way to start a Wednesday morning, I guess they are a good way to start any morning. Stacked fluffy syrupy goodness!

As for my past well, life is all about moving forward, right? So let's do that. Not talking about my past and no dragging up my history with former and now very dead drug lords. Whatever happened in Selva stays in Selva and that's where I'd like to leave it.

Oh, you want to know if I feel guilty about it? Of course not. It was either me or him and as far as I'm concerned I've saved so many lives by eliminating that man from humanity. The world is better for it. Still...the blood...

"Wow, you are...scowling?" I remark in a somewhat tentative tone. It's rare to see Pascal's face twisted like this. Furrowed brows, dark eyes fixed on the plate as if it had wronged him, and without a word he's stuffing my glorious pancakes into his mouth. Not even savoring how perfectly made they were. It feels like he's just here to eat and nothing else but I can't help but ask; "Everything okay?"

His jaw tightens on a mouthful of food and I can see his adams apple drop as he swallows it as if he's a snake, ready to strike. "Did you see what they were saying about me last night?"

I blink. Of course I did not. As you know I do not follow fútbol. So I give my head a little shake. "No?"

This man kicks a ball for a living and I still do not get it. The world cares so much on every pass, every kick, every tackle, every card, and for me it is just a game. One he's going to make a lot of simoleons playing yet still. At least it brings me to the present and away from my past.

"On social media they-" he starts, still pissed, but I aim to cut him off before he gets going.

"Mi querido, you really can't worry about what others are saying about you, random people. Most of those guys probably wish they were you. None of it is true-"

"If you saw my recent games maybe you'd know some of it is true," after that he goes quiet and clearly wants the conversation to end so it does.

Since moving in with Pascal I've learned that when he is in a bad mood the best thing I can do is give him space and let him be. He likes to stew or better yet, he likes to work out his anger. Which is exactly what he does after breakfast but this time he's juggling the ball instead of taking it out on the now overused treadmill.

I spend some time cleaning the place since it's getting a little dirty and dusty and I do refuse to live in a dirty place!

So you could say my day was off to a so-so start. Nothing terrible but nothing amazing either. I expected the rest of the day to move along as usual and basically just be a buffer before the big day comes. You know, delivery day.

Unfortunately, it was not going to be a great day because the moment I opened my mailbox there was a letter addressed to me and letting me know that since I do not have a permit to operate my food stand in the park that I could no longer do so.

That's odd. It was pretty visible and no one stopped me then but I think we all know what this is about and who is behind this. Not sure there is much I can do. I could get a permit and open it back up but I really don't need this right now so consider the matter tabled.

But the day continues on, like it always does, indifferent to how I'm feeling and I'm feeling very hungry of course. I'm happy to dive into more pancakes and another meal as my mind is restless. Thinking and planning and worrying. She's close, I can feel it, she's just as restless, likely planning her own escape and I hope and pray to the watcher that she's ready for the world.

Across the table there is Pascal. Firmly seated and glued to his computer and his fingers tip tapping quickly on the keyboard. It sounds like he's replying and likely to a troll. I hope not. Word of advice, trolls live under the bridge and their entire goal is to stop you from crossing it. They are stuck there, under the bridge, hoping that you stop long enough so they can pull you off your path.

I scoot over to him, grabbing his attention with just my presence but his eyes are still locked on the screen so I clear my throat to take all of his attention. Once I have it I tell him about the situation with my food stand, the bad news and the uncertainty of what I will do moving forward. I'm thankful I have him because if I were still living alone I'd be in deep trouble. His response to it all is a little concerning.

"You're going to be a mother right?" He says, as if that just explains it. As if the rest of my life is so obvious now. "I doubt you'd have time for that thing any ways."

I am blinking at him and sitting up a little straighter and doing my best to take in what he's just said to me. "Time? It's not just 'that thing' to me, it's my passion!" Oh, my voice wavers a little, so I have to stop to make sure this doesn't turn into an argument. "Y-yes, you're right, I'll be a mama first, always, but that doesn't mean I can't do other things too."

Now it is his turn to look surprised, as if he would never suggest such a thing although he literally just did. "Oh, Frida, I didn't mean it like that," and for a moment I believe him to be innocent.

"Yeah," I begin again. Softer now, forgiving what I hope to be a slip up. "It's just...I was really enjoying it! It was mines. It was a testament to my drive and..." I stop and think about it. I could bring it back. Maybe one day I will but perhaps this is a sign too? "I think I'll start a SimTube channel. Martin can't take that away from me and-"

Pascal raises a brow and I realize this might be the first time he's heard of this plan of mine. "Oh? Why is that? Wouldn't that also take a lot of your time?" His tone isn't harsh or anything but the words still worry me. What is trying to say here?

"Y-yes," I stammer, quietly wondering if the question is innocent or if it should concern me. "But again, I don't want to be just a mother, you know? I still want to advance my career, my culinary career, you know?" I ask hoping he understands, giving him another chance.

"I just don't get it," he says but there is a soft edge to his tone now. This is something I didn't expect. Maybe the trolls have him frustrated? "I'm going to sign a new and bigger contract soon so you really don't have to work at all."

I think my heart skips a beat. He did just say that, right? Younger me wouldn't have had an issue with it. Oh no, not at all. The idea of some professional athlete picking me up off the streets and providing everything for me sounds nice. Sounds perfect. Oh and by younger me I mean me a year ago. Now? Well, now I know I can survive by myself. I appreciate he's going to be rich some day but still I want to me more than just his sidekick.

"Oh?" so my reply starts off snappy. "And what will I do with all that time?"

"I dunno?" he mutters in such a nonchalant way that it kind of ticks me off. "I just hear being a mom is a full time job so why have two? Just a suggestion, that's all."

But no, that's not all. I don't like his attitude towards this and so instead of letting the conversation get dropped I pick it up. "So you just want me here taking care of your children and home or-"

"Well Frida," Pascal is not bothered by my annoyed tone at all. "I'm going to be a world class athlete. Seems like its a privilege I'm offering," I'm about to say something because that feels almost like an insult to me. "It's not like that, I promise. Just saying! I think your first priority should be to our child and then the culinary stuff comes after, right?"

"Yeah..." I say glaring at him because he's right. A mother's first priority should be to her child, that is true, but isn't it true for the father as well? "I'm going to start a Simtube channel," I say with some determination.

He shrugs and smiles as if it makes no difference to him.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. That red flag is so big that it could cover a field but...it's just words, in the end, and no one is perfect.

I'm going to have this baby soon, VERY soon, and I'm driven to give her something I've never had. A family.

[i-love-jay-walker]

Agent Walker Piece

The tapping of the well-used keyboard echoed around in Jay’s head, bouncing around in what felt like a completely empty space. The new hire typed something up in the document, but Jay couldn’t be bothered to really check it through. The kid probably knew what he was doing. And if not, he would just make it Prentis’ problem. This was a complete waste of his far too precious time. “Like that, sir?” The young worker queried as he looked up from his dusty computer, fingers still lingering on the keys. His brown eyes were far too bright and joyful for someone in the Administration, filling his superior with almost a feeling of unease. Some people are just too joyous in this world. “Huh?” Jay blinked before his eyes focused back on the screen in front of them, boredom immediately washing over him as his eyes glazed over again. It was probably right. “Oh, uh, yeah. Like that.” “Okay. So then I just change that to Stockroom A? Or is it that thing where it has to go to the Archive System?” “Archive System, Collin. It’s not in Overflow, so it’s an Archive.” The brunette let out a sigh as he pinched his nose, eyes squeezing closed as the clacking of the keyboard began again. So. Maybe it wasn’t right. Was there really not a single competent worker in his department? “So… That would be Personal Belongings, right?” Collin mumbled as he typed away, not waiting for his superior's response, who frankly, wasn’t really listening either way. “And we sent them to the Wyldness. So that would be-” The blonde peered onto a piece of paper, filled with scribbles and notes of different codes and notes. “Uh, AS-F6-1648-5I, sir?” “Is everything a question with you?” Jay mumbled as he glanced over the document, his eyes quickly gliding over the words. Yup, those were definitely words. Maybe the right ones too. “Yes, that’s correct. Are we done?” “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” “You better be, I have more important ga-, uh, work to do.” The brunette coughed awkwardly before he hurried off, narrowly avoiding multiple questions thrown his way by other incompetent workers. Ignoring any onlookers, Jay began to grumble mockingly to himself as he stomped his way to his office, weariness weighing heavily on his shoulders. “Why do I have to do everything around here. Just because I’m the damn boss. Sir, do this. Sir, do that. Do it yourself! Can’t you see I’m busy!” The former ninja angrily slammed the door shut behind him, ignoring the way his “Employee Of The Year” trophies wobbled on the shelf, threatening to fall to the already messy floor. With a groan he threw himself into his black office chair, cursing to himself as it began to swirl, before he firmly gripped his cluttered desk and pulled him and the chair closer. A sigh escaped his tightly pulled lips as he allowed himself to sink into the chair, running a hand over his irate expression, beginning to relax his narrowed brow and unclench his teeth. For a short while, Jay just sat there in complete silence, head resting against his palm as he attempted to calm himself down. Some days the workers just seemed extra incompetent and today was one of those days. He needed a break. Maybe a vacation. But the Administration didn’t allow either. So there he was, stuck in just about the worst job in all of the merged realms. When he finally stretched out his weary arm, reaching for his trusty controller, his fingers gracing the cheap, grey plastic and- DING. The damned intercom. “AGENT JAY WALKER, YOU ARE BEING SUMMONED TO BOARDROOM 38B POST HASTE. MAKE YOUR WAY THERE IMMEDIATELY.”. Jay didn’t even know his controller could shatter into that many pieces when thrown against a wall.

[nails-teeth-neck]

the guts

installed a new psu and my pc is fully functional ☺️

[writerman]

Not pictured: the fan Meowth is lying in front of on this day of 80% fucking humidity

Ignore my dusty ass keyboard

[stormxpadme]

Whumptober 2024 No. 6 - Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

06/04/2018

After the third admonishment that morning, equally silent as unambiguous, this time in the shape of a lack of a coffee refill, the numerous unattended school-related e-mails, most of them marked with an accusatory exclamation mark in the inbox list, could no longer be ignored.

Reluctantly, Scott gave up on his attempt to decipher what Logan generously called handwriting on the latest Danger Room protocols and pushed aside the notes for the next simulation rotation before he could change his mind. A routine keyboard shortcut started his computer's voice command and dictation system, with the same two fingertips coming to rest on the record button instantly flashing up on his desk in addition to the permanently projected rows of letters and numbers. “Recipients: back office. Text: Hint taken. After three subsequent days of ignored incoming mail, you officially have permission from now on to call me out over the speakers. Your plan has a weakness though. For getting administration instructions out of me, caffeine withdrawal is counterproductive.”

His hearing, well-trained thanks to certain mutation-related physical handicaps, promptly picked up laughter from two sides next door, the second a quick tap on the enter button had forwarded this first, not entirely serious order straight to his secretaries' monitors. Just a few seconds later, the familiar hum of the fully automatic machine there followed, which not least due to far more gentle maintenance hands produced much better quality than Scott's personal ancient coffee maker in its dusty corner.

“New calendar appointments: Tax evaluation next Thursday, ten a.m. at mine. Investor meeting next Thursday, two p.m., video conference. Standard e-mail invitation, include delay apology. Internal note: Meeting prep starts as soon as the quarterly figures from Worthington Labs, the Xavier Restoration Foundation, and Summers Upcycling have been filed.” Scott released the record button when the door to the adjoining office opened and rubbed his eyes under his glasses, where a familiar burning sensation of frustration and impatience was already building only five minutes in. So many parts of his job would have been a lot less time-consuming if even half of his global partners would be working as reliably as his team in this building. “Any particular reason, the majority of European CEOs take their summer vacation in June already?“

”At least they take vacations.” The amused answer came, instead of from one of his two office fairies as expected, from a sonorous, always slightly rumbling voice into which mischief mixed when Scott startled, quickly pushing his glasses back into place to turn his head towards his uninvited visitor in irritation.

Hank knew exactly that on such busy days, Scott wouldn't have had the nerve for him again trying to baby him and wouldn't even have asked him inside voluntarily. So he'd gained access via the other room with the help of his charm, which was notoriously irresistible to certain employees. At least he was holding a steaming cup in his paw as an attempt at reconciliation.

Scott took it without a word and demonstratively turned back to his screen, while Hank, just as unfazed, pulled up a chair, his bag tucked under his arm. Since his old friend just couldn’t get it into his head that there was no room for neglectable procedures in Scott's packed everyday life, he would have to live with the fact that today, he would have to administer them without one of his lectures, at least if they weren’t to make their way into Scott's integrated screen microphone as well. “Regarding date proposals for parent-teacher conference: Just carve out any evening during report card week. Cc notification to Mrs. LeBeau and Mrs. Munroe. Prepare participant invitation for video conference including last year's agenda; I'll update it personally. Personal attendance in special cases is optional.”

Hank was at least nice enough to wait until this message, too, had been moved to the “Done” folder before gently but firmly coaxing Scott to peel out of his shirt's right sleeve. Completely unimpressed by Scott's huff, he clicked the thin metal band of a tourniquet around his upper arm close and rummaged for a package of IV lines in his bag next. “Never mind me."

With gritted teeth, Scott focused on the message again which one of his assistants had marked with no less but three exclamation marks in the subject line in addition to the High Importance label. Which awarded these racist motherfuckers from the school district supervisory board with far more significance than they deserved.

A discreet tap on his elbow. Right.

Pumping his fist. Release. Pumping. Waiting. Pump. "Regarding the PNW BOCES request for curriculum oversight: Postal reply, school's letterhead. Text modules: The District Office will be provided with the 2018/2019 theory subject-specific annual overview from the Xavier Institute in July, just like from every other educational institution in this State, and not a day earlier. The contents of mutation-specific subjects and practical power training, on the other hand, continue to be covered by the Discretion Guidelines of the Mutant Privacy Act 2002, version 33.III, paragraph 7, no. 2, last updated 7/2017, published by the Mutant Department and the White House Press Office. Attachment: excerpt of the corresponding law gazette. Yours sincerely.”

Too firm pressure of thick, fur-covered fingertips, encased in protective rubber, on the crook of his arm. A reluctant shake of his friend's head that Scott noticed from the corner of his eyes.

Keep pumping. Release. Wait. A steadily worse-growing tingling from protesting nerve endings. "Regarding the invitation to the Bishop Publishing garden party: Postal acceptance for two, X-Men's letterhead, present for personal signature. Forward a copy to Mrs. Munroe. Appointment in Mrs. Munroe's calendar; note added from the Principal's office: Order, not a request. Have her bring one of the teenagers. Business casual, no uniforms.”

The sharp sting of disinfectant stung in Scott's nose. Another harsh tap on his increasingly numb arm. More headshaking.

Pumping. Waiting. Pumping. "Internal back office note: I've seen your reminder regarding the monthly expense report. No need to mark it as unread again. Give me two hours on the weekend. Usual end-of-term madness. You know how this works, ladies. It's not been that long since you two went to this school yourselves."

Scott didn't even need to drop his scowl when he lowered his sight for a moment, towards where Hank was still busy with that damn needle.

His friend didn't even bat a lid but had the decency to wait until Scott had stopped the dictation once more before he deigned to explain himself. “After decades of abuse, even the most patient veins give in eventually, my young Captain. Wrist? Side of your neck? Thigh?”

Scott almost told Hank that he could just empty that IV bag in the sink as far as he was concerned, but then decided to rather obediently offer his friend his hand instead. The sooner they got this crap over with, the sooner he could get back to his work properly. A barely audible hiss passed his lips when the damn needle finally slipped into its spot between two knuckles. Probably one of the last locations on his arms not yet fully scarred from this whole shit, and not exactly one of the most pleasant ones. He congratulated himself once more on making the decision right after his more or less voluntary promotion back then, to not bother with keyboards in the first place but to train a corresponding program to his voice so thoroughly that in case of emergency, he could work single-handedly, too. Hank had never been particularly considerate of overflowing inboxes. “The coded message from the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters regarding assessment and registration updates for new internal students, I'll keep on resubmission myself. I'll handle this, don’t worry. Forget about it. If Director Fury's office does keep spamming you, send them a receipt of acknowledgment. If there's something in this letter that can't wait: Director Fury has my phone number.”

Two large bandaids instead of one fixed to the irritated reddened area on the back of his hand, so that Scott would not get tempted to give in to his impatience as he had a few times in the past and fuck around with the metal in his vein himself. The stinging in his muscles only worsened when the tourniquet finally snapped open. Then a burning like lava under his skin when Hank connected the line to the IV and released the dial all the way without a warning, the first drops creeping into the overused channel.

Scott suppressed a treacherous groan on his lips, glad that to the attachment of the next email, he had to sacrifice at least a silent minute or two of reading before he could press the record button again with the hand that wasn't filled by an angry throb. "The order lists are good to go, except for the garden center. No, we're still not buying llamas and Shetland ponies for garden maintenance, but tell the kids, nice try. The extra pool supplies are fine; summer weather forecast is pretty wild. Mr. and Mrs. LeBeau are planning their Halloween party again this year, so make sure we don't run out of candy and pumpkins. And remind the U.G.E.R. administration that they owe us two barrels of Kree-Ale for keeping S.H.I.E.L.D. off their backs in March." That had been the last unattended message for the time being, as Scott noted with relief, at least the last one that couldn't wait a few more hours if he squinted. With a small grimace, he used his IV arm to send the full instruction list next door before leaning back in his chair, rubbing his reddened eyes again. "I'm beginning to understand why Charles abused his telepathy for years to keep this place running. Certainly left a lot less of a headache.”

“Your headaches don't come from bureaucracy, my young Captain.“ Hank made no move to get up from his chair, though that bag of viscous fluid that he'd hung on the floor lamp behind Scott's desk as usual, would have drained just fine without him.

”Wanna bet?” Scott sighed, half amused, half annoyed, when his landline phone came to life with a shrill ring. It was the extension of one of his secretaries showing on the display, and the extension list revealed one of the mansion's three main lines lighting up red as well. Which meant an external request that Scott's two fairies hadn't managed to handle for some reason. Christ, how much he hated office days. "Coffee was great, thank you. Had just a few hairs too many.”

“I got the Daily Bugle on line 2, Principal Summers. It's about the earthquake on the west coast. Jameson says that if you don't give him anything, he'll have to work with what he's found out himself.” Which was exactly nothing, and the suspicious tone of his office manager said, she knew that just as well as Scott did.

Jameson making headlines out of nothing never ended well for anyone involved.

And this time, the X-Men had been too fast for the press about picking up that little boy who had almost caused a tsunami last week and for Ororo to dissolve the latter before it could have even fully built. That done, this unpleasant little episode was no longer of any concern of the public. That would otherwise only have refueled discussions among normal people that had actually almost died down, not least thanks to the surprisingly mutant-friendly politics coming from Washington in the last few years.

“Tell him I'm in an important meeting with my Chief medical officer. If he wants to do his story himself so badly, have him send it to Mr. Murdock for approval first. Jameson should still have his e-mail address from the last time Murdock vaporized him in court for us. Thanks.” A soft hiss escaped Scott's throat when he instinctively tried to hang up with the wrong hand. The receiver would almost have crashed on the desk with a loud bang if Hank hadn't caught it thanks to his good reflexes and put it down on the phone himself.

“How much longer do you think you can keep this up, Scott?“

”No idea. For when's the next apocalypse scheduled? Statistics say, it's my turn to bite it this time. Then at the latest, you'll be rid of me blocking your treatment calendar.” Shrugging, Scott turned to his coffee, which had long gone cold.

Hank rolled his eyes so hard that for a moment, nothing but the whites of his eyes could be seen in the deep sockets. “Just for the record, when we tell you to lighten up a little, we don't mean you're supposed to copy your wife's dark sense of humor.”

“You'll have to be more specific then, I guess. Anything else I can do for you? Otherwise, I'll be fine here now. How to pull needles, I know by now, thank you.” Scott tried demonstratively waving his right hand, without much success.

“If you want to hold classes again tomorrow with a bruise so big that the kids will worry, be my guest. Otherwise, sit back and stop fondling your damn computer for ten minutes.” Scott's suppressed growl, unfortunately, wasn’t able to leave much impression on someone with a feral mutation; Hank even slowed down the trickle of those damn drugs, as if he'd sensed that Scott's blood vessels were particularly resentful today of another renewed assault with medication not originally intended for human systems.

"It's possible you could spare yourself all this, you know.”

“Can you stop about that?“ With a sigh, Scott leaned his head back against the backrest of his chair because the effects of the narcotics were gradually beginning to set in, albeit without the stuff achieving what it actually should.

”Actually, I'm just getting started. With a patient family on the list that's made up of three masochists, you get to practice stubbornness a lot.”

Scott bared his teeth. “Right. Because that's what I chose, obviously, falling out of an airplane as a teenager and ending up with irreversible brain damage.”

That dig also missed its mark by miles. “Not that, no. Your choice is ignoring that we might have a solution in our armory to control your mutation.”

“We don't have a solution,” Scott replied harshly. ”What we have is an 18-year-old enemy's weapon for which there's neither specifications nor any upgrades. I'm not even fulfilling my daughter's only birthday wish every year, to be able to look me in the eye at least once. What exactly makes you think that I'm hot on getting addicted to some unstable inhibitor ray because of a few headaches?”

“These few headaches, you'll die from in the field sooner or later.“ Hank put a heavy hand on his shoulder before he could make a move to turn away with his chair – not that with that damn stuff in his blood, his reaction time would have been good enough. ”An extraterrestrial force like your optic blasts can't be contained forever. These bouts are going to get worse by the year, and at some point, having U.G.E.R. supply you with Shi'ar painkillers simply won't cut it any longer. Not to mention, being addicted to this stuff isn't exactly healthy either ... What is it that you think will happen if a flash of pain brings you down in the middle of a physical conflict one day? If you're blinded by a migraine aura so badly that some psychotic mutant-hating special unit member or a Weapon X merc can put holes in you? What will you do then?“

”Make sure, no one else dies because of me and drag my ass out of there so that the others can finish the job,” Scott replied flatly.

Hank's claws dug into his shoulder, tightly enough to leave marks on his shirt that dry cleaning was very unlikely to be happy about tonight. “Oh really. Does your wife know that? Maybe you should let her in on your death wish before we run into someone like Mojo or Lady Deathstrike next time.”

“Tone it down, Henry.” Scott pushed Hank away reluctantly. ”I'm fine. We're talking about a headache here. A lot of people in this house live with far worse issues.”

His friend was obviously not done by a long shot, reopening wounds today. “And some of them would kill for any means that would give them even a little relief. Forget the reversal weapon for a moment. You didn't even ask the only person for help who knows exactly what you're dealing with.”

“My brother and my father didn't even bother telling me that they're alive and know exactly who and where I am until New York went up in flames,” Scott reminded him harshly. ”Alex sometimes even forgets to forge Christopher's signature on his Christmas and birthday cards. What exactly makes you think he's got any interest in working on my powers with me?“

”Assuming again, instead of asking. In some ways, you're more like Charles than you realize.” If Hank saw the dangerous flash behind Scott's glasses at that last remark, he ignored it masterfully.

“If you insist, I'll be happy to smuggle a personal message into the next diplomatic requests for the Defenders of the Earth, hoping that they'll drop it at the nearest intergalactic post office and Christopher will pass by there sometime in the next ten years or so. It can only be a matter of months then before he finds out which dimension Alex is currently in.”

“Maybe these two would show up here more often if had a feeling, they're welcome.” Hank waved vaguely towards the painting of Christopher's current shuttle on the wall, which had been sent as a more or less subtle hint with said last Christmas card.

Not an invitation that Scott would have been even remotely interested in following. He couldn't even manage to go on a summer vacation with his wife, as he'd been promising her for years. His interest in spending his non-existent free time in space instead was below the average temperatures up there. “For 20 years, these two made no effort of that kind in return. I'm not begging anyone to love me, Hank, and I certainly don't beg anyone for help. Especially not when I don't fucking need it.“

”Your wife and daughter would probably argue with that.”

“What was that about assumptions?” Scott was relieved to see that the damn IV bag was almost empty. He still wasn't feeling any effect, but at least he would no longer have to fend off any match points in a moment. ”You know really runs in our family? Caution about fucking around with mutations needlessly.”

Hank threw up his hands in exasperation. “And that's a surprise because …? After the example you've been setting for Cat and Sassy for years? How is one supposed to travel uncharted territory without an anchor, a lifeline?”

“Why do I get the feeling that you don't just keep coming here to turn me into a pincushion?” Scott demonstratively nodded down at the IV, through which fortunately there was nothing more coming.

Hank shrugged nonchalantly and grabbed a swab from his pocket. “Chain of command. Unfortunately, I can't order you to go lie down on your wife's couch. So I'll have to do the job myself.”

“If Katja and I ever feel like using that couch in her office, you can be pretty sure that's not gonna be for counseling."

Scott winced ruefully when Hank, as a punishment for the crude attempt of renewed deflection, pulled the needle from his hand with a little too much force, pressing down on the bleeding just as roughly.

“If you'd rather go back to ruining your stomach with pills until you can only get by on liquid food at some point, you can just tell me.”

“Nonsense.” Scott let himself sink back into his chair, clenching his fists a few times with a sigh of relief. This time, there was no burning. Some of that painful tension in his shoulders had also eased up, and for the first time in days, his neck didn't feel like his spine would break in two the moment he turned his head too far to the side. There was still a slight throbbing behind his forehead, but that was nothing he hadn't been able to ignore for decades. Better than nothing. "You know there'd be something missing from my life without you kicking my ass at least once a week, Henry.”

Unlike him, Hank had not yet found his smile again. He packed his things remarkably quickly. “I'd probably feel better if I had a feeling that it was at least starting to help.”

On that subject, Scott couldn't grant his friend more than a slow shrug, at least today. “I'm trying.”

“I don't doubt that. You've just always been a really lousy student when it came to saving yourself. That's probably a disease one catches from that chair. Later, Principal Summers." Hank left faster – this time through the front door just like it should be – than Scott could think of something to say to this last low blow.

*******************************************************************************

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[amiibo-king]

i got a few requests for this... so here it is! a nadia satrinava 3ds theme :3 features full scrolling bottom and top screens, sound effects, music, etc.

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click the readmore to see the full length top screen collage and a video showcase of the theme working on my own 3ds.

please ignore how dusty my keyboard is.

[chaospersonifiedasaclusterofbees]

I was looking at taunts, and apparently Engie decided I had not heard enough of his banjo solo.

It's been four minutes

I'm going to have to restart my game.

(Please ignore my dusty-ass keyboard, pleaseandthankyou.)

[theartificer]

ITS TIME

FOR MUSHROOM

close up on the mushroom man and the skull

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